


An Honourable Young Man

by xxSparksxx



Category: Poldark (TV 2015), Poldark - All Media Types
Genre: Family Drama, Family Dynamics, Father-Son Relationship, Gen, Jeremy is his father's son, Mother-Son Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-04
Updated: 2019-09-04
Packaged: 2020-10-10 00:55:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,721
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20519300
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xxSparksxx/pseuds/xxSparksxx
Summary: The trials and tribulations of being an honourable young man; or, five conversations Jeremy has about a fight he got into at school.





	An Honourable Young Man

**Author's Note:**

> Jeremy is his father's son. That's it. That's the story.
> 
> Beta-read by the lovely Lucretiassister.

_i. Demelza_

The worst feeling in the world, Jeremy had always found, was disappointing his mother.

He stood now, hands clasped behind his back, trying to stand straight and meet the burden of that disappointment. It wasn’t easy. She looked so distressed, so genuinely unhappy, that all he wanted to do was apologise and comfort her. She sat in her rocking chair, the letter from his headmaster in her lap, one hand at her mouth as if to hold back speech – or worse, tears. 

It would have been easier to be strong if she had been angry with him. He could meet anger with equanimity, accepting that he had broken the rules and ought, therefore, to be suitably remonstrated with and punished by his parents. But Jeremy had rarely heard a truly cross word from his mother in his life, and it seemed this would be no exception. Instead there was this anguish, as if he had wounded his mother deeply, and he struggled to remain composed in the face of it.

It was nearly a fortnight before the summer holidays were due to start. By all rights, Jeremy should still be at school, studying his lessons and enjoying the camaraderie of his fellow students. In a week or so, he knew, his father would be returning from London, and the plan had been that Papa would collect him from school then, so that they could both return from Truro together for the holiday. Instead, Jeremy had been sent home in disgrace, with a letter for his mother and the knowledge that a similar one had been dispatched to his father in London.

Boys fought; that was expected. Small scuffles happened daily, occasionally a punch was thrown, and it was not unheard of for boys to turn up to lessons with bloodied knuckles. It was officially forbidden, of course, and punished with varying degrees of severity, if anyone was actually caught in the act. But by and large, the masters turned a blind eye, so long as it didn’t get out of hand. 

Jeremy had let it get out of hand, and he had been caught red-handed – literally, his fist coated in blood from the nosebleed he had caused in the other boy. His hands, at the time, had been tightly wrapped around John Penhollow’s necktie, pulling at it hard. He hadn’t actually been trying to throttle Penhollow, but he could see how the headmaster had thought he was, since Penhallow had been struggling to breathe. 

If it had been a first offence, no doubt he would have got off with a caning, but it was not the first time Jeremy had been caught fighting. On three other occasions since the new year, Jeremy had been discovered in the middle of a fight more violent than he would normally be able to bear. Enough was enough, the headmaster had ruled. Jeremy had been sent home with a sore backside and his ears ringing from the headmaster’s command to ‘come back with a better attitude, or do not come back at all!’. 

“Oh, Jeremy,” sighed his mother. Jeremy squirmed, and looked away from her. He hated seeing his mother so grieved, for any reason, but especially when he was the cause. “Fighting, Jeremy? More than once?” She set the letter aside and then held out a hand towards him. Dragging his heels, Jeremy crossed the room and let her draw him close to her. “Now then, my lover,” she said gently, “what’s this about?”

He swallowed against a sudden lump in his throat. “I can’t say,” he managed.

“Jeremy, Jeremy…” There was something horrible disconsolate in her voice, and all at once Jeremy threw off his fourteen years and clung to her as if he was still an infant. He wrapped his arms around her neck, felt hers go around his waist, and he hid his face against her shoulder.

“I can’t say,” he repeated. “Please don’t ask me, Mama.” If only his father were here, he thought miserably. Papa would be angry, but that would be easier to face than Mama’s anguish. He could be brave and steady, and accept Papa’s displeasure with his behaviour, knowing his father’s bark was worse than his bite. His mother’s tears were another matter entirely. But he couldn’t tell her; he had known that all along. Above all else, she must not know why he had been fighting. “Please, Mama,” he muttered. “I’m sorry. Don’t be upset. Nobody at school cares, really. I can go back in the autumn and nobody will care.”

“They will if you keep getting into fights, my lover,” she pointed out. But she hugged him tight and rocked him a little, comforting him as if he was still a little child. Jeremy swallowed against a lump in his throat. They were silent for a while, and his mind dwelled on Penhollow’s bloody nose, on the black eye he had given the same boy a month ago, and the sounds he and Nancarrow had made when they had tripped over their own feet, in their haste to get away from Jeremy, and ended up sprawled across the floor. 

At last she spoke again. “Alright, Jeremy,” she said. She was stroking his hair now, and she sounded calmer. “I will make a bargain with you.” 

He lifted his head away from her shoulder so he could look at her. Her cheeks were damp; tears had fallen, but she wasn’t crying now. She wasn’t happy, but the change was enough to make Jeremy feel able to face her head-on, without worrying that she would start weeping. 

“A bargain, Mama?” he ventured. “What sort of bargain?”

“I shan’t ask you why you’ve been fighting, if you will promise me that you won’t get into any more trouble at school.”

His instinct was to agree at once, because she was his mother, and he wanted to please her and to draw a line under the whole affair. But if he promised her that he wouldn’t get into any more fights, then he would have to break the promise, unless Penhollow and his friends stopped provoking him. Breaking a promise would almost be worse than getting into a fight, he felt. Promises in the Poldark family were a serious thing, not to be given lightly. His parents had always taught him that. It would be impossible to make this promise, knowing it must be broken, and so the subject would be pursued, and it would all come out, and Mama would be even more dreadfully upset than she already was.

He could see her disappointment building again with every moment he delayed. He inhaled to admit that he couldn’t promise – and then he exhaled, and nodded. He _could_ promise. He would have to be very, very careful, but he could make the promise, and keep it.

She hadn’t asked him to promise not to get into fights, after all.

“I promise,” he said. “I promise I won’t get into any more trouble.”

She looked at him for a few moments more, as if she could see into his mind if she stared at him for long enough. Jeremy’s toes curled in his shoes as he hoped that this might be one of the rare occasions when his mother didn’t see through him. Finally she smiled, and cupped his cheek with her hand.

“Thank you, Jeremy,” she said. “That eases my mind.” She kissed his forehead and let him go. “Run along now, my lover. You’re home. Leave your troubles at school, hm? Prudie has buns for you and Clowance, in the kitchen.”

Jeremy left her gladly for once. He knew he had managed rather a lucky escape in wriggling out of telling her the truth; he didn’t fancy pushing his luck any further by lingering with her longer. By tonight, it would all be forgotten amidst the pleasures of home and family. Or so he hoped.

_ii. Clowance_

“Prudie says you got into trouble at school,” announced Clowance, by way of greeting. “Did you really get into a fight, Jeremy?”

Jeremy hunched over his plate and stared down at his bun, hoping that if he gave off a discouraging air, Clowance might give up. “Yes,” he said briefly. 

Clowance nudged him with her elbow. “But you don’t like fighting. You never fight. Not even Tommy Nanfan.” Tommy Nanfan was a pugnacious ten-year-old who seemed determined to fight every boy in the neighbourhood, something that appalled his family – especially his father, who gave him short shrift whenever he discovered Tommy had been in yet another scrap. Most boys had long since given up letting Tommy goad them into violence, and Jeremy himself had never once succumbed to the urge, mostly because, as Clowance said, he hated fights of any kind, verbal or physical. Violence always made him feel slightly nauseated. But his school fights were a different matter; he bore those because he must, and hid away his nausea through sheer force of will.

Clowance was evidently not to be deterred, and Jeremy heaved a great sigh and glanced up to see if Prudie was listening. She was busy plucking a chicken, and seemed not to be paying any attention, but Jeremy knew she would hear every word. Very little escaped Prudie’s notice, and though she wasn’t likely to tell tales to Mama, Jeremy had no doubt that she would have her own opinions about the trouble he’d got into at school. That was the trouble of faithful old family servants, he thought ruefully. They knew everything and rarely let he or Clowance get away with any mischief. ‘Leave off, you little rascals,’ Prudie had always said, if Jeremy or Clowance had ever been naughty as young children. ‘Mind yourself, or I’ll mind you!’. He was fourteen now, and too old to be told off like that, but he didn’t think that would stop Prudie. She would just remind him that she had changed his clouts and that he wasn’t too old to go to bed without supper.

It wasn’t that he thought Prudie wouldn’t understand. She probably _would_ understand, as would Clowance, if he confessed the truth to them now. Prudie might still say there was no cause for getting sent home in disgrace from school, but she would most likely tell him off for getting caught, not for the fights themselves. Not if she knew the cause.

Clowance would likely understand, too. She would share his sense of fury. But though she would appreciate why he had fought Penhollow, Jeremy didn’t think she would fully understand the reason why their mother must never be told the truth. She was too young, too naïve. And anyway, she was as bad as Jeremy was at keeping a secret from their mother. No, even if Prudie went away and gave them privacy, he knew he could not be honest with Clowance.

“I don’t like fighting,” he said instead, agreeing with her. “But it’s different, at school.”

Clowance wrinkled her nose and pouted her confusion. “You don’t even like being in the farmyard when a pig’s killed,” she reminded him. “Didn’t you get messy? Prudie said you made another boy _bleed_.”

“Prudie doesn’t know anything about it,” Jeremy said, meanly. Too meanly; he regretted it as soon as he said it. Clowance’s eyes went wide, and on her chair by the window, Prudie shifted a little. She didn’t say anything, though, and though she was scowling when Jeremy glanced at her, her attention still seemed firmly on the chicken she was plucking. Soft downy feathers were floating around her feet. She looked solid and comfortable, and just as with his mother, Jeremy longed to be able to lean against that solid comfortableness and unburden himself.

But he couldn’t. 

“I gave Penhollow a bloody nose,” he admitted, making sure to speak more gently. “But it was just a silly fight, Clowance. Really. Don’t make more of it than it is.” He took a bite out of his bun, hoping her curiosity was satisfied, or that she would take the hint that he really didn’t want to talk about it. 

“But you got sent home from school,” she persisted. Jeremy chewed his mouthful and stared at an old burn mark on the edge of the kitchen table. Perhaps if he didn’t look at her – and kept his answers brief – she would get bored of trying to talk to him. She was only ten, and she hardly stood still most of the time. Besides, she had her own bun to eat. Surely, _surely_ she would stop asking him questions soon.

“Well,” she harrumphed, picking up her own bun and transferring some of her attention to it, “I expect you’re glad to be home, anyway. School sounds horrid.”

“It’s not all bad,” he demurred. “It’s different, that’s all.” Mostly school was fine. Most of the other boys were decent enough, and the masters weren’t demons. He learned his lessons easily, which meant he was rarely in disgrace of that kind. He preferred home, and always would, but school wasn’t forever, and at least he was close enough to come back more often than some of the other boys. And home was wonderful, full of warmth and laughter and cheerful companionship – something he had always taken for granted until he heard about some of the other boys’ families. 

“Maybe when I go to school, I’ll get into fights and be sent home,” pondered Clowance. “If they send you home because you hit a boy, they’d be sure to do the same for me. Then I wouldn’t have to stay. Not for very long, anyway.” Jeremy snorted his amusement, but shook his head.

“It’s not all bad,” he said again. “And you wouldn’t have any reason to get into fights, anyway.” 

“But you do?” she demanded, practically pouncing on him. “Why? _Why_, Jeremy?”

“Because people keep asking me stupid questions and won’t leave me alone,” he snapped, dropping his half-eaten bun onto his plate and shoving the plate away from himself. Clowance gave him a mournful, reproaching look, and Jeremy was stricken with guilt – but not stricken enough to take back what he’d said. He couldn’t tell her the truth, but he hated lying to her almost as much as he hated lying to his mother. He and Clowance had always been the best of friends, and he’d never felt – as some of his classmates did – that a younger sister ought not to tag along with her elder brother. They had always shared everything. 

But this couldn’t be shared. 

“That’s enough, Master Jeremy,” said Prudie, speaking out at last and proving that she’d been listening intently to the whole conversation. “Hush your mouth, or I’ll wash it out wi’ soap for ee.” Jeremy slouched in his seat and couldn’t look at her, or at Clowance. Guilt was piling on top of guilt as he added to his misdemeanours. “Finish your bun an’ milk nicely, Clowance, an’ then run along. Master Jeremy, you just take yours out to the back step an’ be quiet for a bit.” She brushed feathers off her lap and looked sternly at him. “You weren’t brought up in a barn, Master Jeremy. Any more of that kind of talk an’ you’ll be put across my knee, an’ don’t think I won’t.”

“Yes, Prudie,” Jeremy mumbled. “M’sorry, Clowance.” He picked up his cup and plate and rose, being careful not to scrape his chair on the floor and thus incur Prudie’s further wrath. He obediently made his way to the kitchen step and sat down on the warm stone. At least his rudeness, and Prudie’s response, meant that Clowance was well and truly rebuffed from asking any more questions for the moment, and probably for the rest of the afternoon. He knew she wouldn’t give up entirely – she was too stubborn for that – but at least he could sit here and enjoy the rest of his bun in peace. Life felt very gloomy to him at present, but there was undeniable comfort in sitting in the sunshine on the back step of his own home, eating a bun cooked by his mother. 

_iii. Dwight_

Jeremy kicked at the surf when it rushed onto the beach and around his ankles. He’d been home three days, and he was still thoroughly miserable. Not even the pleasures of being at home were enough to overcome his guilt and wretchedness. The weather was perfect, the house and farm were full of amusements and distractions, and there were plenty of chores that he could throw himself into to forget why he was home two weeks ahead of schedule. And he _was_ throwing himself into them, but his disgrace, and his inability to explain it, was a weighty burden.

Mama was keeping her word and had not tried to persuade him to reveal his reasons for fighting, but he knew she thought about it, and he knew, too, that she was worried about him. That only compounded his guilt, for of all things he hated causing her distress, and as the days went on, he felt more and more unhappy about it. But he was determined to be a man, to shoulder this weight and not falter. That was what his father would do; that was what Jeremy must do.

Clowance, of course, had not given up, and intermittently pestered him with questions about the cause of the fight. Hopefully something else would happen soon, something to thoroughly distract her from his affairs. In the meantime, Jeremy was trying to avoid her as much as he could – thus his current occupation of kicking at the tide as he took a good long walk across Hendrawna beach. He tried to collect driftwood to bring back for the fire, as an excuse for these walks, but he didn’t imagine he was fooling his mother. Not least because he had come back empty-handed from most of these walks.

“Jeremy!”

Jeremy turned at the familiar voice, and waved at the man striding down the beach towards him. “Hello, Uncle Dwight,” he called. “I didn’t know you were coming today.” He moved away from the waves, up onto the drier sand above the receding tide. “Is Aunt Caroline here as well? And the girls?”

“No, just me,” smiled Dwight. He reached Jeremy, and by unspoken accord they began to walk back up the beach in the direction of Nampara. “I was called to Mellin Cottages, so of course I stopped in to see your mother. I didn’t expect to find you at home yet.” Jeremy glanced at him, cautious, but Dwight was looking ahead, his expression as kind and open as it ever was. Still, his next words proved that Mama had spoken to him about Jeremy’s situation. “I gather you were sent home from school early. Something to do with a brawl with another boy?”

“It wasn’t a brawl,” Jeremy muttered. Then he straightened his shoulders, reminding himself that his father wouldn’t offer excuses, and so neither must he. “Yes, sir, I was caught fighting another boy.”

“Now that sounds familiar,” Dwight said. He was smiling again, but still kindly. “The trouble wasn’t because you were fighting, the trouble was because you were caught?” He had hit upon the loophole in Jeremy’s promise, though of course Dwight couldn’t know that. Still, it made Jeremy squirm uncomfortably. “Well,” Dwight remarked, “I dare say I have never heard of you acting so like your father in your whole life. I hope you aren’t intending to follow in his footsteps and get into more fights. It’s a bad example to take, Jeremy.”

“Papa doesn’t get into fights!” Jeremy said indignantly. It sounded rather like an insult, the way Dwight put it, and he could no more stand to hear his father insulted than his mother.

“Not these days,” agreed Dwight, “but he used to. Not frequently, I grant you, but far more often than your mother liked.”

Jeremy was silent for a while, thinking this over and trying to imagine Papa getting into a fight. He couldn’t picture it. Not that his father was an inactive man – far from it – only he seemed too…too _sensible_ to let somebody provoke him into violence. He had a temper, Jeremy knew that, but he still couldn’t imagine his father throwing a punch or getting a bloody nose in return. Still, Dwight wouldn’t lie to him, so he supposed it must be true.

“Who did Papa fight?” he asked at last. “Was it anyone I know? And _why_?”

“That isn’t important,” Dwight reproved him gently. “What’s important is that he’s discovered better ways of making his point, without resorting to violence. As I trust you will too.”

Jeremy scowled, but had enough sense to direct it out towards the sea and not at Dwight. “Mama asked you to speak to me, didn’t she?” he demanded. “To find out what happened? She promised she wouldn’t ask!”

“She didn’t ask me to find out what happened, no,” said Dwight, still calm, even in the face of Jeremy’s rudeness. “But she’s concerned about you, Jeremy. You must know that. It’s so wholly out of character for you.” Jeremy shrugged irritably. “I _offered_ to speak to you,” Dwight added. “I know that sometimes, speaking to somebody else – somebody outside one’s immediate family, I mean – can be useful.”

“But you’d just go and tell her, or Papa,” Jeremy muttered, kicking at the sand as they reached the end of the beach and came to the beginning of the sandy scrubland that lay between the beach and the field beyond. 

“That I would not.” Dwight was emphatic on that point. He stopped, so that Jeremy had to stop too or risk being rude, and he turned towards Jeremy and put a hand on his shoulder. “I would _not_, Jeremy, unless it was a question of your safety.” 

Jeremy squirmed again, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “I…I’m sorry, Uncle Dwight,” he said at last. “I shouldn’t have said that.” That had been unfair of him; he knew that. Dwight was one of the most trustworthy people he knew, his profession making him the keeper of more secrets than Jeremy could easily imagine. He never talked about his patients’ ailments, never shared any confidences that might be given to him in a sickroom. Jeremy had often heard Aunt Caroline teasing him about it, but no amount of teasing elicited any more information from Dwight than a patient’s name. 

Dwight, of all people, would keep Jeremy’s secret. He wouldn’t tell Mama, nor Papa, the truth about why Jeremy had got into so many fights at school. For a long moment, Jeremy thought about telling him. A burden shared was a burden halved, as his mother would say. And Dwight would understand a little, he was sure. Perhaps not as much as Prudie, but enough to understand why he’d had no choice but to fight. 

But then his heart sank again. Dwight might well guess that Jeremy had no plans to turn his back on such insults in the future, and if he did, he would surely count that as being a question of his safety. Then the confidence would be broken, for Dwight would feel honour-bound to tell his parents that he was determined not to avoid fights. And even Dwight didn’t tell them why, still it would be enough to provoke his mother’s concern and his father’s condemnation.

“So will you tell me?” Dwight asked, still holding Jeremy’s shoulder. “Will you trust me?”

He shook his head slowly. “No, sir,” he said slowly, reluctantly. He felt more miserable than ever, but he was sure he’d made the right decision. “I do trust you, but I can’t tell you.” 

Dwight looked down at him for a moment longer, as if waiting to see if Jeremy would change his mind. When Jeremy said nothing, Dwight sighed and patted his shoulder. “I see I shan’t convince you,” he said. “But the offer remains, Jeremy. You need only ask.” 

_iv. Sam_

“That’s a long face, Jeremy. What’s amiss?”

Jeremy looked up from his contemplation of the currents of the Marasanvose. He was just as miserable as when he’d first come home, ten days before. Clowance had, thankfully, begun to be distracted by other things, but Mama had certainly not forgotten his disgrace. True to her word, she still said nothing to Jeremy, but he could feel her watching him more than usual. And his father was due back any day now, an event Jeremy was dreading. Papa would know about the trouble, of course, for a letter had been sent to him, and after the first joy of reunion, he would undoubtedly summon Jeremy into the library to give an account of himself. So far not a word of the truth had crossed Jeremy’s lips, and he was determined that it should remain so, but he wasn’t looking forward to looking his father in the eye and refusing to answer him. 

He’d come out today entirely to delay the inevitable, should today be the day of his father’s return, and to distract himself. He sometimes liked to lie across the footbridge at the top of the village, head poking over the edge, to see what he could see in the stream that passed down through Sawle and fed into the sea. Sometimes he found a treasure that way, the stream being only an arm’s length below the bridge. A shiny stone, sparkling like a jewel. A duck’s feather, sometimes. Often a bit of broken pipe, thrown into the water as a way of disposal. Odds and ends that even now, at the lordly age of fourteen, he liked to pick up and look at, wondering how they had come to be in the stream.

But of course Sawle was full of people, all of whom knew him and his business – including the man who now spoke to him, his uncle Sam. 

“Hello,” Jeremy greeted, scrambling to his feet. Sam was dirty from the mine, dark smudges on his hands and face showing that he must have been hard at work all day, but his smile was as kind as ever, so like Mama’s. It was pleasant to see such a smile without knowing there was anguish behind it. “I’m alright,” he added, lying through his teeth. “I was just watching the fish.”

Sam looked at him for a long moment, as if he, like Mama, could see right through Jeremy. Then his smile gentled, and he gestured down the hill.

“I’m for home,” he said. “Come and take a cup of tea with me, nephew. And I reckon Rosina’ll have some cake ready for hungry lads.”

Cake was never to be sneered at, so Jeremy fell into step beside Sam and went with him down the hill, past Drake’s old forge, and into the cottage where Sam lived with his wife, Rosina. Sam could sometimes be an uncomfortable conversationalist, but even so he was a friendly sort of person, and a well of compassion for all he came across. When Jeremy had been younger, Uncle Sam had joined in with all manner of games with he and Clowance, every bit as carefree as Jeremy’s other uncle, Drake. Jeremy felt himself to be too old to indulge in much of that now, but he was very attached to his uncle still, and pleased by the invitation. He was beginning to be cheered up simply by the prospect of tea and cake, and a conversation without guilt hanging over him, when Sam again asked him why he had looked so forlorn.

“I expect you’ve heard,” he said gloomily, kicking at a stone in the path, wretchedness overtaking him again. “And I _don’t_ want to talk about it.” Sam’s silence was audible, and Jeremy sighed and kicked at another stone. Perhaps he could share it all with Sam. Sam was a preacher of sorts, after all. Surely he, like a doctor, would consider himself bound to secrecy over the things that his flock shared with him. He certainly never gossiped about anyone. But he would be unlikely to take Jeremy’s part; he would be appalled to know why Jeremy had been fighting. 

Jeremy had asked him, once, why it should be such a bad thing that Mama’s father, and Sam’s father, had been a miner. 

“Ben’s father was a miner, and Ben’s the best fellow I know,” he had said indignantly. He had simply not understood why it should matter that his mother’s family were poor and, as she sometimes jested, of ‘common stock’. His friends growing up had been common people, the children of the villagers who lived in Sawle and Mellin, and whose parents worked in the Poldark mine. Sam had patted his shoulder and agreed that Ben Carter was a good lad.

“It do make a difference, though, Jeremy,” he’d said. “It oughtn’t. We are all children at God’s feet. But on this earthly world, God forgive us, we make too many distinctions between those that have land and wealth and those that don’t. We must bear others’ disapproval, and not let any judge us save the good Lord, who knows what matters is what’s in a person’s heart and soul, not what work they do to feed their bodies.”

Sam was too good, that was the trouble. He would tell Jeremy to turn the other cheek, to overlook what the other boys said and remember that only God could judge. He wouldn’t understand that it was a question of honour. Jeremy couldn’t let them keep saying those things, he _couldn’t_. 

“I’m sorry,” he muttered at last. He didn’t mean to be rude to Sam, but everyone he met, it seemed, had an opinion about his difficulties, and no problem with sharing those opinions with him. He was fed up of thinking about it and fed up of talking about it. He couldn’t tell anyone the truth, and he couldn’t stop getting into fights, and there was nothing anybody could do to help him. He was the most miserable boy in existence.

“A burden shared is a burden halved, Jeremy,” Sam said. “Come and sit with we, and tell us about it. Perhaps we can help.”

“Mama says that,” Jeremy sighed. “About burdens.” The other trouble with Uncle Sam was that he was too much like Jeremy’s mother. They had the same smile and the same look of unhappy disappointment, and often came out with very similar forms of words. Papa always said that Uncle Drake was too like Mama for his own good, but Jeremy didn’t see it. It was Sam who smiled like Mama, and Sam who made him feel squirmy with guilt when he did wrong, just like Mama. That was how he felt now: fidgety and unhappy and wishing he could make a clean breast of it, but knowing he could not.

“And your mama is most often right,” Sam agreed. “So will ee let me help, nephew?”

Jeremy kicked another stone along the path and thought about it. It was tempting, as it had been tempting to tell Dwight, the other day. Both of them were trustworthy men, honourable and upright, and he loved them both dearly. But just as he’d been sure Dwight would be honour-bound to tell his parents that he had no intention of stopping fighting, he was sure that Sam would feel likewise. He’d feel it was his duty, both as Jeremy’s uncle and as a Methodist preacher, to tell Jeremy’s parents the whole story. And the only thing Jeremy was still certain about was that Mama must _not_ find out the truth. Everything else felt muddied and disordered except that one certainty. 

“Thank you,” he said, “but I can’t.”

Sam patted his shoulder. “I thought ee’d say that,” he admitted. “But stop in and have the tea and cake, anyway. And remember, Jeremy – our Heavenly Father hears all and knows all. Prayer be a powerful help for a troubled soul.”

“Yes,” Jeremy said, but doubtfully. He didn’t think there was any help to be found for him, in prayer or otherwise. He just had to grit his teeth and bear it. That was all.

_v. Ross_

The summons came after supper, as Jeremy had known it would. 

His father had returned that afternoon, and all afternoon Jeremy had been on tenterhooks, waiting for the axe to fall. Not that he feared physical punishment – he’d been caned already for his offence, at school – but he dreaded having to stand up to his father and refuse to answer. His father would be angry with him for that, he was sure, as much as for the trouble he’d got into at school. Silence was more honourable than a lie, though. And after a week of holding his tongue in the face of tender concern and rampant curiosity, he thought he could manage it in the face of anger.

But if his father was angry, he wasn’t showing it. He was solemn and disappointed, but not angry. Standing in front of him in the library, trying to accept the consequences of his actions like an honourable gentleman, Jeremy felt small and wretched and inadequate. 

“Do you want to tell me what the fights were about?” Papa asked him.

“No, sir,” Jeremy muttered. He kept his eyes down, focusing on the toes of his father’s boots to avoid having to meet his father’s gaze. 

“I’ll rephrase,” said Papa dryly. “Tell me what’s been going on.” It was an uncompromising demand, and there was part of Jeremy that longed to meet it. As much as he hated to upset his Mama, he hated to disappoint his Papa. “We’ll stand here until you’re ready to tell me, Jeremy,” Papa added. “I have all evening.”

Jeremy swallowed, and clasped his hands together behind his back to keep from fidgeting. Dwight had said that Papa had got into brawls, in the past. Perhaps he’d understand. Certainly his father was the most honourable man Jeremy knew, the best of men, and everybody looked up to him. Papa would understand, surely, that Jeremy’s honour – his family’s honour – had been at stake.

But anything shared with his father would be shared with his mother: he didn’t think his parents had any secrets from each other. On the other hand, Papa was perfectly capable of standing here in the library all evening, all _night_ if necessary, until Jeremy confessed. Maybe he could skirt around the real issues, and give Papa part of the truth, but not all of it. Enough to end this excruciatingly uncomfortable interview.

“I – the boys said something I didn’t like,” he admitted slowly. 

“About what?” his father inquired.

“…About a person I know.” Then, unexpectedly, the feelings of outrage and fury bubbled up in his chest and burst out of him. “He had no right to say those things! None at all! She’s not –,” Appalled at his lapse, he cut himself off. But he’d already said too much, and his father pounced on him.

“She?” he repeated. “She who?” Jeremy pressed his lips together and lowered his head again. He had promised himself that Mama would not find out, and a Poldark always kept his promises. It didn’t matter how angry he was, or how many fights he got into: Mama must not know what had been said. 

Papa was silent for a while. Jeremy screwed his eyes shut against angry tears. It wasn’t fair. He knew he’d done the right thing – he _knew_ that. But fighting was against the rules, and he’d been caught, so he’d accepted his punishment as just, and not protested the caning or being sent home from school. He could take all that. At least the boys at school didn’t think they could get away with it scot-free. But this interrogation from his father was hard to bear, and he knew Papa wouldn’t give up until he had the truth. 

When his father spoke again, his voice sounded strange. “Did somebody say something about Mama?” he asked. Jeremy lifted his head, astonished that he should have been found out so easily. He couldn’t understand his father’s expression, but the reverse did not seem to be true: whatever Papa saw in Jeremy’s face, it seemed to confirm his suspicions. “About her family?” he suggested. “Her background?” 

Jeremy thought about denying it, but there didn’t seem any point any longer. Instead he took a deep breath and nodded. Suddenly he felt able to stand up a little straighter, as if a weight had been lifted from his shoulders. Mama was right after all; sharing the burden made it a little easier to bear.

“And you defended her,” Papa went on. Jeremy nodded again. “You fought those boys because they said untrue things about your Mama. Is that about the size of it?”

“Yes, sir,” Jeremy agreed. Then, because if he was going to be honest, he might as well do it thoroughly, he added, with a defiant tilt of his chin: “And I’ll punch anyone who says anything bad about her! I don’t _care_ if fighting’s wrong! I promised Mama I won’t get into any trouble, but I won’t let them say those things!”

Papa’s face was peculiar. He almost looked as though he was trying not to laugh, but that couldn’t be right. Jeremy had admitted his wrong, and admitted he had made a promise to his mother in bad faith. He’d admitted, in fact, that he had no intention of stopping misbehaving in future. There was nothing in that for Papa to laugh about, surely. But that was what he looked like.

“Mama –,” Papa paused, clearing his throat. “Mama can fight her own battles, you know,” he said. As rebukes went, it was mild, but Jeremy’s heart sank nonetheless.

“Yes, sir,” he mumbled. “I know, sir.”

“Come here, Jeremy. I want to shake your hand.”

Jeremy stared up at his father, utterly bemused. “Papa?” But his father held out his hand, apparently quite serious, so after a moment Jeremy stumbled across the study and shook his father’s hand. 

“It was very nobly done,” Papa told him. “I would have done the same thing.” Jeremy opened his mouth to speak, but couldn’t manage anything other than another stammered ‘Papa?’. He’d expected a dressing-down for what he’d done, perhaps even another caning, not for his father to shake his hand and praise him. “But you must not get into trouble in school,” Papa went on. “I dare say the boys will think twice about insulting your mother again, but even if they don’t, no more trouble. Do you understand?” 

He sounded stern, but his eyes were twinkling. Jeremy, far from feeling reprimanded, began to smile. Because his father hadn’t forbidden him from fighting – if that was what he meant, he would have said it. Instead he had landed upon the same loophole that Jeremy had discovered, when his mother had offered him a bargain.

Promising not to get into trouble was not the same thing as promising not to fight. 

“Yes, Papa,” he said. “I won’t get into trouble again.”

“Good boy.” His father put his hand on Jeremy’s shoulder, smiling now, warm and friendly a way that showed his approval. “And you’re quite right not to tell your mother, by the way. I congratulate you; it’s not easy to keep silent when everyone wants you to speak out.” Jeremy felt a good three inches taller from the praise. Taller and stronger, as good a man as his father was. “We’ll keep this between us, shall we?” Papa suggested.

Jeremy nodded. “Yes, please.” 

“Good. Now run along and tell Mama all’s well. She’s been very worried about you.” Papa lifted his hand from Jeremy’s shoulder to his head, ruffling his hair in a friendly, affectionate manner. “All’s well,” he repeated, reassuringly. “Off you go.”

Lighter in heart, considerably less troubled in mind, Jeremy obeyed his father willingly, and went to reassure Mama that the whole trouble was over with. He might not have to fight again, after all – Papa was right, surely the boys would have learned he wouldn’t let them get away with saying those things about Mama – but if he did fight, he knew he would have his father’s silent support. He knew his father was proud of him.


End file.
